Homecoming
by Regans Alpha
Summary: After the conclusion of the Orphen TV series, a young Childsman, now attending the Tower of Fang, reflects on his relationship with his mother Azalie. Beware the use of first person introspective and hints at a somewhat disturbing relationship.


Title: Homecoming

Author: The Dragoness (aka Regan)

Notes:  Based off of the TV series.  This is screwed up.  I know.  But then again, so is the last episode of Orphen, so… yeah.  Beware of the use of first person introspective and hints at a rather strange and mildly disturbing relationship if you think about it too long.  Oh, and I love feedback and reviews! ^__^  They make the world go 'round

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            _Azalie is coming for me today._

            It's not a thought that physically passes through my mind as I make my way through the twisted corridors of the Tower of Fang.  Rather it's a simple fact that merely hovers about me, blended into the background of my consciousness to become part of my entire being.  I don't even think about it for a moment.

            _Azalie is coming for me today._

            The teachers here say that I should focus solely on my work if I am to improve my talents.  But I know the observation is merely for show, at least in Master's case.  I know he admires my studiousness.  My concentration.  My gift.  Magic comes naturally to me as it always has since I was very young, a translucent aura flowing out through my fingertips, washing over everything and everyone I touch, even her.  Master is very easy to read, though I believe doesn't mind that I know these things.  I can read them from the way he teaches a spell, the way his eyes focus restlessly on my assignments, the way he half-smiles when a new book arrives for Master Hartia, which he immediately gives to me to study from.  In fact, Master has never told me to focus more on my work, but instead repeats only one quiet suggestion to me every day:

            _Don't forget to breath._

            It slips my mind sometimes, such an absurdly simple necessity.  It's not from laziness or a result of being overworked.  I just simply forget, my mind slowly drifting elsewhere.  I never shoot myself straight toward one particular goal or need; I simply am.  My thoughts and emotions spiral through me without any effort.  I am composed of so many ideas and tiny thoughts.  I am alive, and I am breathing when I remember to.  Sometimes as I walk through the dim lower levels of the tower, it pleases my consciousness to speculate on how much I've come to feel in the past fifteen years.

            Most people here don't understand, too bogged down in the rules and traditions of magic to ever consider that the source of it all lies within the unbound soul of its Summoner.  I doubt they deserve to.  I've never liked the elders and their dark, dusty secrets, or the older teachers with their large hooked noses affixed to the pages of their books.  They're the ones who whisper about me during my trials and after my tests, pointing and shaking their heads in disgust as I pour over a manual on obscure spells and their origins.  My eyes narrow as I bow my head deeper into the ink and crumpling paper, flattening my dark hair with my fingertips in an attempt to hide from those I am supposed to respect.  But no admiration comes and none ever will, for one cannot respect someone who both scorns and fears you.  I've always known that I'm not like the other children, and yet I do not care for their reasoning; it's just always been so since I came to the tower to begin my studies.

            Even so, I know it's about her.  It's another one of those facts that I simply _know_ in my soul and don't even have to think about.  The void left by respect is filled by hatred and frustration.  If that was the case, it was worse than simply despising me.  It was just so much different and cut so much deeper when I knew that those points and stares weren't directed at me at all, but at her.

            I attempt to wrap my consciousness even further around my book, boring my eyes into the pages until the spells become a meaningless jumble of lines and curves.  I'm not used to this sort of forced concentration, and it shows.  Suddenly I feel the book slip from my hands, and I look up with a mix of fierce anger, frustration, and sorrow plastered across my face.  But it quickly relaxes into curious confusion as Master slips a comic book into my outstretched hands, patting me on the head and telling me to take a break; the spells will still be there in the morning.

            The others are different, and I like that.  My fellow students just see me as the top apprentice in our level.  Everyone else who matters knows what I am and doesn't care in the least.  Majic, when he returns from his long travels, treats me as a normal child and entertains me with tales of his journeys and past adventures with a sorcerer named Orphen.  Li and his fellow colleges are always curious as to my progress in learning.  And Master seems to understand me more than anyone else.

Except for one person.

            I jump lightly down the winding stairs of the East tower that leads out to the courtyard, and the thought flits around me again, darting about and whispering its message to the surrounding walls.  _Azalie is coming for me today_.

            It's a bit funny that I call her by her first name.  I wonder about that every once in a while.  But Azalie has always insisted that I call her that.  Her bright red eyes had twitched and flashed every time I slipped and dared to call her "mother."  Master, Li, Majic, and my friends may always be there for me in body, but Azalie is always there in my mind.  She never leaves it for a moment.  Wherever I go, she is always there, lurking on the edge of my being.  Normal people aren't bound like this, I tell myself.  But I can _feel_ Azalie's connection to me.  I know her; I know her desires, I know her wishes and dreams, he sorrows, her virtues, her secrets, and her mind.  I know her soul.

            There was one thing she had tried to keep me from knowing when I was younger.  But even so, I knew the dark desire she has carefully guarded from her acquaintances, friends, and especially her child.  I know the whole story: her transformation into the Bloody August, Kiliranchello's – Orphen's – struggle to save her, and her undying love for a man who gave his body and life for his former student.  And I knew that that love had not diminished or changed.

            I sometimes think that it's wrong.  That our relationship is all wrong, and that a mother and son should be that and nothing but.  Antigone complexes between them are wrong, and should either be fixed or suppressed.  But Azalie doesn't mind, and when my mind chooses not to wander the path of analysis, I don't either.  For I know that I'm always safe within her pale, thin arms.  When we're together, Azalie will never lose me a second time, and I will never lose her for the first.  I may not have the memories of my past life, but I am still connected to her soul in every way that I used to be, even more so now that I was once a part of her fifteen years ago.  Formed from her own flesh.  We are connected through the ties of our blood and the connection of our souls.  And neither of us will be at rest until we are together.

            As my feet touch the bottom stairs, I remember for a moment that that is wrong as well.  But it's too late.  I've gone too far, and I don't care.  I'm in the courtyard now and I can see the comfort of the small brick house sheltered under the thick woods, the cozy meals, the crackling fire, the soft, warm bed.  I can see them all in the slight purple-haired woman waiting patiently by the gate for me.  My mother.  My soulmate.  My life.

            Azalie is coming for me today.

            I'm going home.


End file.
